


Witch way are you going?

by Maracuya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Halloween, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 13:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12583156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/pseuds/Maracuya
Summary: This is both a little Halloween thing and a belated birthday present.The prompt: "Could you write a Sansa witch fic for my present? [...] I would rather she be a super shy witch in fact, doing her best to be a good witch but not fierce enough."I tried to make her shy, but there's still a bit of strength in her. And I had to adapt a few things to make the setting work.





	Witch way are you going?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maroucia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maroucia/gifts).



> I don't own anything. All the credit goes to GRRM, and I'll never make any profit from this.

Sansa looked up at her grey direbat named Lady and pointed at the tarot card she had uncovered.

“The Lovers!” Sansa exclaimed. “Would you have expected that? So Sandor Clegane must listen to his heart. If only he WOULD listen to it. Or to my advice.”

Lady moved its wings, but didn't fly away.

Sansa sighed.

 

“Perhaps I can give him a little gift, something with an aquamarine. It may support self-confidence and love, so perhaps Sandor may find his way. If only I had thought of it before...”

Sansa tipped her finger against her lips.

She'd add a supportive spell with one of the old magical symbols. After all, she was very good with these symbols.

“I mustn't tell him, of course. He'd laugh about my allegedly “romantic” attitudes towards magic. Oh Lady, why does he have to be so complicated?”

The direbat uttered a petite squeak.

 

Sansa looked at the little doll she had sewn of the man who was simply called “The Hound” by most people. She caressed the fabric and thought of how her sister would rather torture the puppet with a needle. She kissed the face patch that symbolised the man's facial burns.

 

The next day, Sansa approached the tall warrior with small steps. When he glowered at her, she didn't dare to look at him.

“Now what's this?” Sandor growled. “The little bird hopping around like a nervous chick? And still not daring to face me?”

He forced up her chin.

 

Sansa breathed in and out.

“Ser Sandor –”

“I'm no ser.”

Sansa bit her lip.

“There's something I wanted to give you.”

Sandor raised his good eyebrow.

Sansa went on, “Look. A little knife in its sheath.”

 

Sandor blinked. Then, he looked at the present.

“And why would I get gift from you? And such a fancy little toy? With a gem?”

Sansa blushed.

“I've heard it's your nameday.”

“Is that so?” Sandor growled.

Although the anger in his eyes was difficult to look at, Sansa gazed at him.

Finally, the tall warrior uttered a little snort. He pointed at her.

“Blue gem, blue eyes.”

Although his tone was derisive, Sansa smiled.

“Not the same type of blue. Still. It would give me joy if you accepted my present.”

Sandor harrumphed, snatched the knife and stalked away, metal armour jingling.

 

Sansa's ears were burning, and she looked at her feet again.

“ _The magic will need a little time to unfold,”_ she told herself.

 

A few days later, there was a big reception in the throne room. Of course, Queen Cersei was pestering her husband again he should do something against witchcraft, knowing full well that magic was a Northern phenomenon. King Robert looked at Ned Stark, his First Wizard, and rolled up his eyes.

Sansa had learned via a mental connection to her direbat that the queen was drinking a wizard's herb concoction so as not to become pregnant again, which rendered the queen a hypocrite in Sansa's eyes, but of course Sansa couldn't complain about it all aloud.

 

Then, her eyes fell on the immobile, towering figure behind the throne. Sandor Clegane was shielding his sovereign from potential dangers as usual. Yet, there was a tiny little difference: Sansa spotted a dot of aquamarine in his boots. Her heart started to beat faster, and she suddenly sensed the Hound's gaze on her. Bravely, she looked back at him for a moment before she averted her eyes again so nobody in the Red Keep would notice their wordless communication.

 

After nightfall, King Robert told Sandor to escort Sansa back to her rooms in the Tower of the First Wizard.

While they were walking side by side, Sandor muttered without looking at her, “You're a weird little bird, do you know that?”

“That may be true,” Sansa agreed.

“Maybe, I want to find out for myself just how weird you are,” Sandor went on in a saucy tone.

“Of course, a man like you would want to find out such a thing,” Sansa replied and nodded.

 

The next moment, Sandor cursed. They were in the dark part of a corridor.

Sansa was about to ask what was wrong... when she found herself pressed against the wall, an armoured long leg between her skirts, and a hungry mouth crashing down on her own one. There was nothing gentle or romantic about this kiss; it wasn't at all the way such things were described in the bard's songs. Strangely enough, this kiss was actually better, and Sansa's heart jubilated.

 

Just when she was ready to wrap her arms around Sandor's neck, the tall warrior let go of her and backed away, panting. He looked like a panicky predator, and he gulped.

“Fuck!” he uttered. “What is this bloody magic you're weaving?”

Sansa's breathing was laborious as well, and she thought her face was surely redder than her hair.

Still, her voice was soft when she answered, “It's the most common magic of all, Sandor, don't you realise? It's called 'love'.”

 


End file.
